


Ser Prompts-a-Lot

by TheEarlyKat



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Middle School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anders Alive and Well, Anders Named a Cat, Anders Spicy Shimmy, Anders Writes Self-Insert Warrior Cat Fanfiction To Get Back At Sebastian Stealing His Gold Stars, Angst, Blood, Brothels, Except the Sex Never Happens, F/M, Fenris and Anders Have One Thing in Common, Fluff, Hawke Alive and Well, Hawke Eats a Bug, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Multi, No Anders without Justice, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phone Sex, Pining, Post-Kirkwall, Pre-Awakening, Pre-Justice Anders - Freeform, Project 'Keep Leandra Happy', Warrior Cats, griffons, post-Adamant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-05 00:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 15,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5353574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEarlyKat/pseuds/TheEarlyKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of shorts (under 1,000k) requested from others of all different types centering around the DA2 crew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fenders - I could give you a massage?

**Author's Note:**

> I have a few requests right now, but come send one in at my tumblr: iamthehivemind

Anders evened out the last bandage around the elf’s ankle.

“You’re finished, you big baby,” he said, slapping Fenris’ knee as he rose from his crouch and stretched, spine popping. He kicked the dwindling roll of bandages across the floor of his clinic towards his desk to pick up later and crossed his arms at the low growl sent his way. The mage crossed his arms. “Now don’t give me that. I can just as easily un-heal you.”

“Don’t mock me, mage,” Fenris spat.

Anders chuckled and smoothed the bangs that had fallen out of his tie while he worked back. His hair was greasy and they stuck easily enough, and the thought made him just a touch uneasy. How the months had changed him, living in the sewers. “I don’t mock. I’m telling the truth. Justice doesn’t let me even exaggerate and you complain worse than Hawke sometimes.” He tapped his boot against the bruise just beginning to blossom all manner of blues around the injury and watched the elf’s ears twitch in discomfort. “A little sprained ankle and it’s like you lost the limb itself.”

Fenris rose from the cot he sat on, shoulders hunching as he curled in on himself, hands clenched at his side. Anders ran his eyes along the length of him and ran his tongue along the line of his teeth, his mouth suddenly going dry. The power of the elf, even defensive as he was, made his knees go weak thinking of what it must be like to have all that strength directed to something productive – like slamming him against a wall or locking his arms above his head while he-

Anders cleared his throat. “S-see? Standing up just fine. You’re fine.” Fenris muttered a curse under his breath as he tried a step and the mage sighed, dropping his arms back to his sides. As much as the elf infuriated him, emotionally, romantically, he was still a healer. “If you’d just let me use magic I could-“

“No magic,” Fenris hissed, turning sharply on his heel. He growled in pain at the motion in his ankle and stumbled back a step. Anders rushed forward and grabbed at him to pull him upright again. His skin was warm under his hand and this close he still smelled of battle, of blood and wind and lyrium, a heady combination that stirred even Justice’s interests. It made him bold.

“Oh, stop milking it and go elevate it for a day or two. Put some of your wine to good use and chill it as an ice pack. It will help with the swelling and…”

And Fenris was leaving. He waved a hand over his shoulder as he hobbled towards the door and Anders bit his lip. His palm was still warm with the feeling of his arm under his fingers and he curled his fingers into a fist, tight, to hold onto the moment.

“W-wait!” Fenris didn’t pause until Anders jogged in front of the elf. Fenris lifted his chin to glower at him but kept his mouth pointedly pursed into a thin line. “I, ah, do you-” need anything else? “-well, I mean, I-” wish you’d look at me like anything except a demon. “-could give you a massage?” Fenris’ nose wrinkled and Anders snapped his mouth closed hard enough to jar his teeth and he tasted blood when his tongue was caught. “Ah, to, you know, staying stiff after a battle results in more injuries than most are aware of…” Anders glanced away, his excuses wilting on his bleeding tongue the loner the disgust grew in Fenris’ eyes, and he toyed with the edge of his belt. “Hawke asks sometimes, I just thought-”

Anders felt him shift, an almost imperceptible relaxing of his jaw and easing of his weight out of an attack position. Anders linked his hands together, lowering his gaze. Was it because Fenris didn’t want to be on any receiving end of his infatuation, and knowing he wasn’t special if Hawke was also involved, he was safe?

“Another time, mage,” Fenris said, and Anders inhaled the scent of him as he passed.

It hadn’t been a total decline, he supposed, but even Justice lamented the loss of the elf’s presence.


	2. FenHawke - I Think I Love You and I'm Terrified

Hawke was not a mage and yet his mere presence put a spell on him like none he had ever known. Fenris’ skin tingled, hot electricity snapping every nerve the man touched with a brief hand on his shoulder in goodbye, a skin of his fingers down his arm when they passed, their elbows brushing with every step along the Wounded Coast. His eyes were always watching, not alert for slavers or magisters or dunkards attempting a sloppy pick-pocket in their inebriation, but for Hawke to turn the corner or swing through the Hanged Man.

He’d catch himself, sitting on the edge of his seat with Varric’s cards in his hand for the next round or spread eagle in his bed late in the night, waiting for Hawke to enter with his booming laugh or knock, and Fenris would wonder what it might feel like to have that laugh all for his own, knowing the rap of knuckles on the rotting, blood-stained door was asking permission for more than just a request to join on another slaver-hunt.

He _ached._

It wasn’t like the constant pain of his markings, itching and burning with every touch. It wasn’t like the scars that marred his back and feet. It was deeper than anything he’d felt, and where old wounds and magic cut through him like knives, sharp and direct, this was all encompassing, pain etched in every corner of his being, from the curves of his feet to the sharp angles of his ears, he hurt.

Fenris didn’t understand and it made him fearful. He shied away from Hawke’s touches, flinched at his words. He made excuses to leave their Wicked Grace games earlier and locked his door when he stumbled home, but it didn’t help as the man always knocked first anyway. Fenris never went to answer unless Isabela was with him, and the rogue would force the door open. Hawke had stopped bringing her after the first time. Fenris found, after a certain amount of time and an even larger amount of wine, that he missed it. He missed the way a simple touch could bring fire under his flesh and goodebumps above at the time how, how a word could leave him breathless, and the words ‘You could have a life here’ held meaning when Hawke was around.

Fenris remembered when he was a slave, packed in tight with the others in their closets the magisters deemed their quarters, of the elves that laid together in the night, when the dark kept them safe from prying mages, to comfort each other with soft touches and wordless companionship. He hadn’t understood, then, what it meant, why they would risk a relationship. Free, making friends and growing roots, he found himself thinking back to those moments, and, in his room, he’d press his fingers to lips and pretend they were Hawke and wonder why he would ever want another man to decide how he should feel.


	3. Handers - You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes

There was so much blood. It coated his hands, made his fingers sticky where they pressed hard against Hawke’s stomach and obscured the blue cracks of the Fade that threatened to burst from his skin if he pushed himself any harder.

“Lyrium!” Anders shouted. His throat was raw from shouting, screaming Hawke’s name with panic in his throat, right next to his heart, when he saw the Arishok’s blade slide through him like a gruesome replica of Fenris’ power, screaming for another bottle because he could stop the stem the bleeding and Justice could fix his organs but neither could bring a man bank from the brink without help. “ _Lyrium!_ ”

Meredith was lecturing by the throne, a steel-clad boot pressed a dead Quanri’s face flat against the red carpet, color more from blood than dye now, and Anders wished reverently that someone was paying more attention to him than the mad woman even now trying to use the death of half the city to condemn the mages. A bottle was hesitantly pushed into his peripheral and he reached for it with a shaky hand.

“Anders-” The bottle was pulled back and the clear glass was marred by red. The color was everywhere and the sight of it made him sick.

The mage dragged his eyes away from Hawke’s paling skin to follow the path of the retreating lifeline until he blinked slowly up at Isabela. “I need it,” he whispered, voice cracking. From screaming, from holding his sobs back. She smiled softly at him and he made another clumsy swing for it. “For Maker’s sake-” Anders snatched it the second time and down it, throat convulsing at the bitter taste and stomach heaving. Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed it down, head spinning as another dose of lyrium poured through his veins and he had to blink hard to focus his vision and find the wound in the mess before him.

“Hawke,” he said, more to himself than Isabela or even the man himself, remind him of his purpose before the lyrium threatened to sweep him away in a tide of music and nausea. He pressed his hands one more, hard, against the gaping hole in his torso, and poured his magic into it.

It lacked the finesse of his usual healings. Precision was needed for the injuries he normally tended to, fractured bones and head wounds required the most attention, but this – Anders was too afraid to be anything but fast. There was no such thing as careful when the wound was larger than the man, when the man bleeding out beneath him was his lover.

“Lyrium,” he croaked out. No new bottle was thrust at him. No one muttered a cautious word about his request. His arms shook with the effort of holding the spell past his limits and the edges of his vision went fuzzy until he shook with the tears he didn’t dare to let spill. Not until he was out of options. Not when Hawke’s heart still beat, as faint and flimsy as it did, under his care. He could not lose any concentration until there was absolutely no hope left.

But just how much hope did he have, when there was no lyrium left? When Justice was as quiet as he’d ever been in his exhaustion? How could he keep Hawke alive with no magic to sustain him? What was he to do when-”

A hand wrapped gingerly around his wrist and Anders tossed the touch off. “Unless…unless it’s to hand me another…bottle, I don’t – I don’t-”

“Love.”

“Lyrium, Isabela,” he rasped, yet she continued to pull his hand away, disrupt what little he could do to keep Hawke alive. Did she not love him? Was this how she would repay his kindness, by first causing this war and then killing him? Justice stirred from deep within his mind with a growl, an echo of the righteous anger they felt.

“You’ll die.”

“I’d do anything.” Anders whimpered as he hand left his arm to cup his cheek and Anders felt the heat of lifeblood press against his cheek. He leaned into the touch and kissed the inside of the wrist, uncaring of the blood that smeared the skin, and left his lips there just against the pulse point. “I’d die for you, love.”

“That’s a bit…extreme. For a first confession.” Hawke’s chuckle turned into a cough, wet and weak.

Anders leaned back on his heels and wiped his hands on his robes. They were soaked through and he tugged the closest body towards him to clean his hands off on their tunic. “You fainted…straight into my arms. With that ridiculous, Maker-damned grin of yours on your face. You could have been less extreme – less Arishok stabbing – if you wanted a date.” Anders shifted forward, using whatever scrap of mana he’d found with his breaths to balance Hawke’s adrenaline before he went into shock again and slump forward. Hawke wrapped an arm around his side and guided him to his chest. The mage rested his head against his heart, faint but still beating. Every breath was less raspy than the last.

“Next one will be from the Knight-Commander – promise.”

Anders heaved a sigh before the headache and the mana imbalance caught up to him and he felt his conscious drift. “It’s a date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still taking requests!


	4. Handers - Goodbye Kiss

Hawke’s eyes were beginning to water and he whined once before he was forced to blink. He scrubbed hard at his eyes with a knuckle and the cat before him merely flicked a tail. Hawke cursed its ability to beat him in every staring contest and Anders only chuckled from the doorway of their two-roomed cottage.

“Andpawste doesn’t want you to leave either.” The mage drifted forward to run his hands up Hawke’s back and curve over his shoulders to reach for the tunic the rogue was folding. Hawke let him take it and leaned back to press against his lover’s torso, thin and wiry but still warm and comforting.

“I don’t think he has much choice in the matter.” Hawke scratched the cat behind the ears before prodding its side lightly. The calico jumped off the bed, finally freeing the satchel it sat upon for Anders to slip the last article of clothing from their meager positions and tug the straps closed.

“I’m not sure she understands.” Anders held it out for Hawke to take the rogue let his hand linger over his for a long moment. Anders lifted his gaze from their entwined fingers to search Hawke’s face. There were lines around his eyes, most from the months of hard travel it took to get to their current hideout, but the newer ones were from late nights of laughter. His beard was wilder, longer than either would have liked, but both of them were getting used to the sprinkling of grey. He couldn’t find an answer in the familiar face. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either, but I trust Varric to keep things a secret, and if there was a reason he needed to keep any explanation out of the letter, it was to protect you. Us.”

Anders nodded, unable to get a word out as his throat constricted. The both of them had come so far, gone through so much, to be free of Kirkwall, but the Champion was being pulled back into events. They’d earned this – their cottage, their safety, their cat. How could Thedas ask for more? “How long?”

“Oh, I’m not sure. You know how much the dwarf likes to draw out his Wicked Grace games.”

Anders’ chuckle was weak and he reached out to the familiar beard beneath the familiar eyes on the familiar face and tugged him close. Hawke went willingly and the years of practicing this dance had Hawke lifting his chin to meet the mage’s lips automatically. Anders skimmed his hands along his face, burying his hands in his hair, trying to commit the moment to memory, and felt Hawke do the same as hands ran down his neck and around his shoulders to clutch him even tighter.

“Tell Andpawste not to worry,” Hawke said.

Anders pressed a lighter kiss to his cheek. “I’ll try.” He watched him leave the house from the window, two soldiers baring the Inquisition’s banner leading him to his horse.


	5. Merrill&Varric - You ask a lot of questions that I don’t have the answers to

The rhythmic tapping of Merrill's bare heels against the desk had become a pleasant background noise in the otherwise unpleasant sounds of shouting and crashing bottles just outside the room. Varric's quill slid smoothly across the paper, not a drop of ink anywhere he didn't wish it, until the soft thumping discontinued and the tip dragged unsteadily off track. Varric lifted his head from a trade report to find the elf missing from her perch on the edge of the desk and found her after a moment's pause crouched by the bookshelf in the corner, tucked against the wall next to his bed. 

"Some light reading before anyone gets here?" he asked. 

Merrill jumped back from the bookshelf and Varric chuckled when the novel she'd been tugging at clattered to the floor. "Oh, no, that's quite alright. Isabela reads your stories to me sometimes." She brushed off the dirt from the cover and replaced it before running her hands down the front of her robe. She paused to fiddle with the hem of the sleeve when his laughter stopped. "Is that wrong, Varric? Did you want me to read them yourself? Is that what you're supposed to do? Oh - I'm still not used to everything here. I'll start reading right away."

Varric raised his hands, quill momentarily forgotten. "It's fine, Daisy. I was just...Rivaini reads to you?"

The elf nodded, ears twitching at the interest. "Oh, yes." She moved forward to sit on the corner of the desk and picked up the pen, thumbing the edge of the feather and giggling at the brush against her skin. "Her voice is so soft and very nice to fall asleep to."

The paper in his hands was forgotten just as well at the news and Varric searched his drawers for a new slip of parchment. "She reads you to _sleep_." He tapped the top with a new quill in question and Merrill laughed. Varric noted the blush that crept across her tattooed cheeks as he scribbled down the confirmation. 

"The alienage is just so quiet at night. Except for when the Templars come. It's always noisy when the Templars come."

"And our daring ex-pirate is right there, reading to you tales of adventure and romance, to keep you safe." Varric shook his head and finished his sentence with a hearty dot of ink for the period. "This is going to make a great book one day. The Champion and the apostate mage followed up by the pirate queen and her wanted concubine." He glanced up when hands slid forward into his field of vision, fingers tapping on the edge of the parchment. He followed Merrill's arms up to blink at the grin wrinkling the tattoos on her cheeks. 

"It's about Hawke? And Anders? Oh, Varric, that's so romantic." 

"Daisy, If you didn't know, 'Bela is probably not the best storyteller. But I think her 'friend fiction' gives that impression already," he muttered under his breath.

"Do you really think? I think she's a great storyteller."

"I'm sure she gets you very involved."

"Oh, yes, she even changes her voice." Her smile twisted when Varric laughed and he waved it away with a brush of his hand over hers. "Do all of those things happen, do you think? What Isabela writes?"

"You'd have to ask her, but I wouldn't put it past her to sneak into Hawke's room uninvited to...research."

"Research? Does she ask them?" The hand over hers tensed and Merrill slid it out from under his to fold her hands together. "Was I not supposed to ask? Is that a private question?"

"It's not private, Dasiy, to ask. But I think you should ask her to find that out."

Merrill dropped the question with another twitch of her ears and resumed tapping her heels against the desk and Varric continued writing the newest chapter of his book, the words flowing into sentences hinting at further side novels about the scandalous relationship of the blood mage and wanted pirate. There was a shift of cloth and another stutter in the rhythm. 

"Are your stories true?"

Varric licked his thumb and rubbed out a blotch of ink in the middle of his sentence. "Excuse me?"

"Do you do research? For your writing?"

The dwarf gave up, fitting the quill back in the inkwell as his shoulders shook with laughter. "Oh, Daisy, what do you mean?"

"I mean about the dragon fighting and the hideout raids?"

"You're there! You've helped Hawke flush plenty of drakes out of the Bone Pit and report smugglers to Aveline! I just embellish them!" 

"So they're not real stories? Hawke never let himself be swallowed by a High Dragon to get the ring Anders got him from its stomach? Anders never braved Hightown to get Aveline when Hawke was trapped on the Wounded Coast? They didn't celebrate the estate all passionately like you said?"

Varric cleared his throat when he found enough breath between his fits of laughter to answer. "Some things you'd have to ask those two yourself."


	6. Fenders - whatever that is behind us is going to eat us alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is honestly nothing like what was asked of me, sort of, but this is what came to mind.

The days were for fighting - both physically and verbally. Cloudless skies let the sun glint off polished swords thrust at slavers and reflected off pointed gauntlets. The Vinmark mountains echoed the shouts of threats or barks of orders, and sharp words snapped between fights. The constant arguments were tolerated, if only because Hawke needed a healer when going up against Tal-vashoth and Isabela refused to go anywhere if she wasn't allowed to watch Fenris walk before her. 

The nights were for whispers, softer and teasing, and embraces more welcome than jabbed fingers rough grabs to yank each other out of the way of a falling blade. But if it was the only contact they allowed in company, the prick of steel fingers and the ache of magic was more than welcome. Only in the shadows of the night, when even the enhanced vision of elven eyes had trouble piercing, were these moments allowed. Only hidden in the mansion the citizens avoided did they allow themselves their comforts. 

They had to keep it secret, if not for them than for their friends. Their earlier arguments, so silly they seemed now, had dug a rift in their rag-tag group that not even their shared shame over it could fill. They would fight and bicker in public, to keep up impressions, because no explanation could prove solid enough to help them climb out from the pit they made earlier. Hawke and company believed them to be enemies, and enemies they would be, if it meant everything would stay the way it was. 

Isabela would not find some other downtrodden man to fawn over as long as Fenris was around. Hawke would not stop supporting the Underground as long as Anders was there to pine for. Hightown would allow the mansion to remain unaccounted for as long as an apostate was not living there. And so they kept themselves hidden. On some days, it helped more than others. 

"Stop," Anders hissed. His hands fluttered before the points of Fenris' armor before finding a safe place to put them and shoved. Fenris made a sound in his throat at the attempt. 

"That was not what you were saying before."

Anders felt his flush deepen and he licked his lips. "Yes, well, that was before, when I could enjoy this, and not when I was warned of the Templars and you shoved me into the closet."

"Did you want to hide under the cot? Or beneath your desk?" Fenris' grip on his shoulders tightened to something more than pleasant and he winced. "Why not in the middle of the room if that would make you more comfortable than somewhere safe."

There was a crash as something fell to the floor and shattered and Anders exhaled a shaky breath, unsure whether he felt like laughing or crying. "And you talking will keep them from hearing us and looking in here. They're very thorough, you know. I won't have anywhere to run." His throat tightened. "Not here, where it's so-" Crying, definitely crying. 

Fenris' lips muffled the first hiccup and the hand cupping his jaw wiped the tears that flowed down his cheek. "They will not find you," he growled against his mouth and the feeling of those words against his lips had Anders nearly believing. 

There was another crash, closer, and the mage jumped, whimpering louder, and Fenris tore his gauntlets off, snapping buckles without care, and wrapping his arms tighter around the mage. He shook against him, and buried his face in the crook of his neck. 

"I told you this was a bad idea," Anders said, cracked voice muffled by skin. 

"Everything you do is a bad idea - I was prepared."

"But this - this life. Always on the alert, always on the run - you could have a life here. Finally stop - "

"I have always been on the run, mage, and not by choice. I do have the freedom to choose now, yes." There was a shout and several answers before booted feet stomped on fallen glass. "And if I am to choose to run, again, it will be for you."


	7. FenBela - Of all the questionable things I’ve seen you eat

“You know I was joking before, right?” Isabela placed a hand on Fenris’ forearm and the elf felt it more in the tingle of his markings than the heat on his skin. He would gladly have turned to look at the face she made, but he wouldn’t dare to take his eyes off the wriggling bug held out to his face. Hawke snorted somewhere besides him, evidently watching the pair and finding Isabela’s expression very amusing, yet he favored his life more that. Almost.

“As was I.”

Merrill shifted an inch closer and the caterpillar she held outstretched pressed closer. Fenris reeled back into Isabela to get away and attempted to focus beyond it to the wide eyes the blood mage watched him with. “Are you really not going to eat it?”

Isabela wrapped her arms around him and pressed forward. “Are you?” Fenris growled low in his throat. Her concern was everything the hug wasn’t: tight and warm and all too close. He found a sort of comfort in it and surprised him with a chuckle when the pirate swatted Merrill’s hand away. “If you actually eat that I’m not letting you put that tongue of yours anywhere near-.”

“I’m not going to eat it,” Fenris confirmed.

Hawke laughed again, moving to toss an arm around Merrill’s shoulder. Her large eyes shifted from them to look up at the man. “I’ll eat it.” All three of them froze, with Isabela breaking the silence with a cackle.

“That’s an even better joke than mine!”

“Not a joke,” the man said, shooting her a grin and plucking the still squirming caterpillar from the elf’s hand. “If it makes my Daisy happy.” He paused, the bug just an inch from his face. “It will make you happy, right? I’m not just doing this for nothing?”

Merrill shifted on her feet and glance at Fenris. “I was hoping…the People.” Her hands fluttered at her sides. “But, oh, no, Hawke, it would still make me happy. For you to do something like that for me-”

“That settles that, then.”

Fenris felt bile rise in his throat, only encouraged by the squeeze Isabela gave his stomach as she gagged.


	8. Handers - Griffons

It was a series of jagged spikes that broke from the ground like iron teeth from the jaws of the mountains that Hawke urged his horse towards. The beast was reluctant to cross the dusty miles between them and the man gave it a solid pat on the neck. He was just as exhausted, just as dirty and unkempt as the one companion he had since Weisshaupt. They’d been pushing their limits since leaving the Wardens with their condolences to reach the outpost, Adamant a shadow in his thoughts as it was on the horizon behind them. It grew more distant as they pushed through the howling winds and berating sands, led only by the glint of sunlight on those pointed edges. The Inquisitor had been asking about information in ever since spotting it as they traveled, and Hawke was determined to reach it before a scouting mission was sent out.

Somewhere, hidden by the stones piled high and the gates as spiked as the outer walls, was a secret Hawke wanted kept unseen for longer.

He found it buried in a pile of sacks, stitched together and hanging from a line to form a sort of lean to within the shelter of the lower atrium. Rotted boxes were stacked around and covered in all manners of papers and twists of roots or herbs held down with half-full bottles evaporating in the heat. A thin tail of smoke curled from the center of it all, flames edged in blue as the fire fed on the energy of magic rather than wood.

Hawke slipped from the horse and tied it up in the upper atrium with a soft word of thanks before kicking a rock down the stairs towards the ratty tent. Its echo ended in a series of curses and a muffled thud and the lean to twisted several times as the occupant tried to escape its confines. The man was worse than the horse, blond hair sticking to his lean face from grease, his beard worse. Pale skin was a mess of freckles, more than Hawke had found the last time he’d visited. His favored coat was more rag than suede now, and the golden buckles were rusting, and the man went from staring at Hawke to self-consciously brushing it free.

Hawke stepped forward and took his hand from his coat, lifting them to press a kiss to the knuckles, pausing at the scratches he found there. Those long fingers began to shake and he planted the kiss more gently and the taller man flushed deeper than the burn on his nose.

“I heard…Adamant. The sky just…ripped open.” Anders’ other hand lifted to trace the shape of Hawke’s jaw, softly, before gripping tight and pulling the rogue closer, tighter. “I saw it. I felt it. Justice was-”

“A problem?”

“Worried.” Anders buried his face in Hawke’s neck, breathing in deep. He could still smell the smokey scent of the Fade on his skin and he buried his fingers in the fringes of his hood to ground him, to remind himself this wasn’t a dream.

“I have to say, not the kind of vacation Varric made it out to be.” Hawke ran his thumb over the scratched on his hands. “How were you?”

“Not as lonely as you’d think,” the mage told him, and Hawke’s quip left him when he saw those favored wrinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. “I finally managed to get them to sleep.”

Hawke raised his brow. “Don’t tell me you’ve somehow found a cat _here_ of all places.” Anders laughed and the hard times in the Fade and at the Warden Fortress seemed worth it just for the sound. The mage gently took his hand back and pressed a finger to his lips before opening the flap to the tent. Inside were…definitely not cats. Feathers poked out every which way instead of fur, and sharp beaks took the place of soft mouths. There were claws, large, pointed talons, instead of the small pinpricks Hawke had gotten used to with Pounce the Second. “Well set me aflame and call me Andraste, Anders. Where did you find them?”

“In the lower levels of the outpost. Not as far as the dungeons, but hidden,” he explained, smiling again. Hawke missed the wrinkles as he shifted to his knees and reached a hand out. His fingers twitched above the sleeping clutch. “Go on. It’s hard to wake them when they decide to sleep on their own.” The rogue took the offer and lightly trailed a finger through thick plumage and a grin spread out on his face when one stretched a wing out for better petting.

“Is this really a good idea? If the Wardens find out.”

“They’ll find out eventually,” Anders admittied. He sat, pulling a limp griffon into his lap. It folded itself easily between his legs, burrowing in the warmth of his stomach, and Hawke couldn’t help the way his smile softened at the corners at the sight. He’d missed this - missed Anders. And there was nothing in the way of being back with him, from taking him somewhere more hospitable. Taking him _home_. “I might keep one, though.”

“And where would we keep a griffon?”

Anders laughed again, jabbing a elbow into his side. “You complained when I said the same about keeping a _dragon_.”

“A completely reasonable request,” Hawke answered, and, yes, nothing would keep him staying this time. Not even the Wardens.


	9. Handers - Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this a few days ago and felt it was too short to make it it's own fic and thought it'd fist best here.

The cat was under under his hand and Anders didn’t mind the sharp prick of claws that dug into his palm when it stretched. He found himself following suit, calves trembling pleasantly and toes curling just the slightest as he resettled into the lounge across the divan. His feet dangled over the arm of the sofa but the folded position was worth it to have his head pillowed in Hawke’s lap, especially with the hand that occasionally smoothed the hair back from his forehead.

It had all been a dream once; the small farm with the smaller house, a handful of goats and even more chickens clucking out the minutes of the lazy evening the pair of them could spend indoors simply wrapped up in each other. They had talked about it, on the better days, when Hawke had the energy left from the day’s Championing to patiently coax Anders into closing the clinic early. In whispers, afraid that fate would get wind and tear their hopes apart one last time if they spoke too loud. Beneath sheets pulled up tight to their chins to hide their futures from the monsters they knew lurked at night. A life together. Not on the run as refugees or fugitives. Not as the Champion and the apostate healer. A real life with their real names, Garrett and Anders, settled, safe, and free.

Anders wasn’t sure when the switch from dream to reality had begun. It seemed like always that they returned to the collapsing hut on the fringes of Tevinter with one newt plank of wood to rebuild the rotten wall or another scrap of cloth to add to the curtains, small trinkets to decorate the walls until it was more home than house. The goats came themselves, forgotten in the heat of war and left to wander, and the cat they found mewling in a puddle in a village abandoned just like the ones before it. The dry soil grew more every season, from scraggly weeds to nearly edible crops until medicinal herbs bloomed alongside sweet corn and potatoes, so gradual it was like the farm had always been there. Like their life had always been there, planted, needing only a bit of time and nurture to grow.

The hand in his hair trailed light fingers down his cheek to cup his cheek and it was then that Anders knew he was smiling to himself. He craned his neck to lean into the touch and hummed when a laugh rumbled in Hawke’s stomach beneath him.

“Have a good dream?”

“Very.” Anders opened his eyes just in time to get a glimpse of a dark beard before he felt it rub against his forehead, followed by chapped lips on his skin in the soft press of a kiss.

“What do you say about herding the goats in?”

The mage let his eyes slip close and wiggled his shoulders to turn onto his side without disturning the cat curled up in the bowl of his hips. “I say five more minutes.”


	10. Custom Warden/Zevran - Fluff

The Frostbacks were cold no matter the season, whether the sun dried the mud in even the lowest valleys to dusty cracks or snows layered the land in depths of white. It was between seasons, and though little snow fell during the dry period, the wind was just as harsh. It tore at the tent walls to voice its power, but its influence found no hold against the ingenuity of man. Or the craft of a mage. A barrier encircling the interior of the tent kept it stable as the windstorm raged outside. While trees bent to brush their needles against the ground, the candles on the tables flickered steadily and the papers rustled only when Leverette moved them from one stack to another. Fire, tined green rather then red. It fed off his magic rather than wood, flickering as long as he had mana to spare, and gave off more heat than any natural fire.

Enough that throughout the night, each companion in turn found themselves in his tent in some excuse. To give a report, complain about supplies, map out their next move -toss a compliment or two in Zevran’s case. Leverette found his smile widening with each tug at his tent flap and stop of booted feet dislodging dirt and stones as each paid a visit and he poured just enough magic into the flame to ease the chill the brief chance the wind had to get inside.

“Have I mentioned that it is hot in here?” Zevran poked his head in through the tent flap while he removed his boots before shouldering inside completely.

“You may have once or twice,” Leverette said, mouth quirking at the corner. He read through another letter - a thank you from Redcliffe - while the elf settled himself by the fire. There was a series of buckles loosening and unzipping and he lifted his eyes from the page to watch Zevran lay down his armor and strip his tunic. The elf paused and met his gaze with a lowering of his lashes.

“It is _very_ hot in here.”

Leverette snorted and stacked the parchment with the rest of the others. He bound them together with a strip of cloth and set them aside for the night. “I think it’s simply you.”

“That, _amor_ I cannot deny.” Zevran piled the rest of his armor in the corner by Leverette’s staff before perching on the cleared edge of the table. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, watching the mage finish putting his business away. He caught Leverette’s wrist and tugged him forward. Leverette moved towards him willingly with a quiet laugh and met him halfway in a brief kiss.

The tent was getting stuffy, he had to admit. His sleep clothes stuck to the small of his back and the hair curling at the base of his neck frizzed with sweat. He’s felt only the warmth of his companion’s grateful smiles when he raised the height of the fire when they entered and had forgotten it in his work until Zevran was running light fingers down his sides to catch at the hem of his threadbare tunic. Leverette pulled back long enough for the elf to peel it off. The heat of the tent did nothing to help until Zevran pressed his lips against the skin of his chest, kissing first and blowing cold air second. 

“What are-” Leverette laughed and shoved his hands against the elf’s shoulders, goosebumps running the length of his arms when the elf did it again, higher this time. Zevran’s answering mumble tickled and Leverette heaved a breath to keep the burst of laughter from rising any further. Another shove with frosted fingers, a breath of Winter’s Grasp enough to turn his fingernails blue, made Zevran finally squirm away. He caught the mage’s hands in his and ran a thumb across his knuckles, red from the sudden changes in temperature. 

“You know what they say about cold hands?” 

Leverette smiled down at him. “Warm heart?” 

Zevran’s grin curled into something wicked. “Do you know what they say in Antiva?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always open for a request on [my tumblr](http://theearlykat.tumblr.com/), and I don't mind writing pieces for other oc's!


	11. Zevran - Laying around in weird positions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little bit short but enjoy!
> 
> Feel free to request anything over at my [tumblr](http://iamthehivemind.tumblr.com/)

Zevran pulled his knee towards his stomach, dragging the heel of his boot through the dirt, and stretched his other leg. He pointed his toes to relieve the numbness that had built from the inactivity of laying on the ground and continued to polish his daggers, wary of the slick that could stain his bare chest if he wasn’t careful.

“Don’t tell me you just woke up like that.”

Zevran risked a glance away from his work to raise his brows at the Warden shouldering his way out of his tent and gave him a smile. He ran the stained cloth along his dagger, once, and then a second time more slowly when Alistair’s attention finally focused on the action. He chuckled at the flush that colored his tanning face. “There was the brief moment when I had to find my pants.” He rolled his heel.

—————————————————-  
“You can’t tell me that’s at all comfortable.”

The elf arched his back, pressing his shoulders down into the grass to tickle the skin there at the bridge he formed. he let the tension leave his knees and elbows to fall to the ground and rolled onto his stomach in one movement, propping his head up in his hands and kicking the heels of his feet against his backside in another.

Alistair’s eyebrows rose, furrowed, and settled into a twist of both. The uneasy frown on his face remained a resolute slash of his mouth. Zevran let his own slide into an easy grin, slowly, and watched his eyebrows twitch again in confusion.

“We assassin’s must be flexible, no? Very flexible.” He winked and dug his knees beneath him to roll onto his feet and resume the position again.

————————————————-  
He’d pulled one of the later watches, from the times even the night birds quieted and the dimmest of stars were threatened with the oncoming dawn. It was the period of the night that the last thing a man had to worry about was a gang of thieves looking for an easy payday - Zevran would know - and as the night progressed he found himself leaning further and further back until he was hanging upside down the branch he perched on hanging just by his knees, bark digging into the soft flesh of his calves.

It was quiet enough that he heard the rustle of a tent flap and the stomp of booted feet, though they were not bothered to quiet themselves in the first place. Zevran reached up to grab ahold of the branch to pull himself up when he caught the sheen of a sword in the dwindling moonlight. He dropped back down and let his hands dangle below his head. When Alistair passed close enough, he swung himself just enough to brush his fingers against the man’s cheeks and swiftly pulled himself upright to settle himself flat against the trunk of the tree.

“While the lost puppy look is very endearing,” Zevran purred, and Alistair’s head snapped up to find the voice in the darkness. “ you may want to look just a little to you - ah, yes, there.” Zevran held himself closer to the tree and rested his cheek against it.

“And see what?” Alistair folded his arms. “You? In some weird position again just to make me uncomfortable?”

Zevran snorted. “It seems we are getting to know one another, yes?”


	12. Varric and Morrigan - Love Bite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure there was an intended crack ship involved with this request, but, I'm sorry, that wasn't about to happen.

“You’re shitting me,” Varric coughed around a laugh. Ale stuck in his throat and he pounded on his chest to let is go down easier before heaving in a breath and losing it in another round of chuckles a second time.

Morrigan watched him through her lashes and sipped lightly at cup of wine, slower, aware that a stray laugh could have her choking on her drink just as well - and that would go poorly if the newest Empress of Orlais were to hear about an sightly dribble of wine down her chin. “Oh, I assure you.”

“Who would have thought he had the gall?” The dwarf lifted his cup in a salute and downed the rest of its contents.

“Certainly not me,” she agreed, and set her mug amidst its brothers arranged in a sloppy formation around the table. It was surprising that it took so much to let the story past her lips, but she found herself liking this dwarf - much more companionable compared to the last one. And his humor was far favorable. “The mark was quite a surprise. For one that bemoaned over such teasing before, he couldn’t keep his hands off me.”

Varric snorted and called for another round. “You think Prince Charming would be up for a re-enactment? For references sake, of course.”

Morrigan chuckled. “The Inquisitor has spoken of your wealth, but I don’t believe you have enough riches to pay for enough drinks to make that happen.”

He hummed. “What about a personal demonstration?”

“That, you definitely could not buy.”


	13. ZevrAnders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly though I uploaded this, so it's coming late if you follow my tumblr and have seen this before. Wrote this after I received an ask about how well Anders and Zevran would get along if they ever met up.

"Well aren't you a rare catch to find."

Anders swallowed his mouthful of ale before he spit it out in surprise at the sudden voice behind him. It wouldn't have worked out well, he thought, but it might have worked. A splash of spit-tinged anything tended to turn everyone off, especially if directed at their face, even if it wasn't the one the spit-tinged anything was aimed at. Someone's attention would have been caught and any manner of distraction could have earned him enough time to knock his chair back and sprint his way back to the docks to charm his way onto another boat. 

He shouldn't have been drinking in the first place, but reason was balled up tight and swept under the fuzzy rug the ale was wrapping around his mind to be found for another time, another place. He was out, he was free, and who cared if Antiva wasn't the place he had in mind? Kinlock wasn't the place he had in mind. Anywhere else was peachy and fuck all to the rest of it. Unless it happened to be a templar behind him. Was it a templar behind him? A templar wouldn't give him the time to finish off the dregs of his mug if there was any suspicion to be had. 

It wasn't a templar. It was an elf, and if anyone was calling anyone a rare catch, it should have been him. 

He was all lean muscle beneath tight leathers as colorful as his eyes, somehow bright despite their dark color, set beneath thick brows framed by a curving pair of tattoos. He was dark like all Antivans were, born and raised by the sun and the oceans, and Anders had no hope to match him with the freckles he was quickly earning himself in the city. He was pale and while that pointed him out as a stranger to the country, there were all manner of people in the city for business and trade and pleasure. Mainly pleasure. Hopefully for pleasure, because Anders didn't think much business - at least the squeaky-clean kind - went down between the sheets of a brothel. 

And he sat down on the edge of table, hips brushing against Anders' knuckles wrapped around the handle of his mug. He let his grip loosen and the elf laughed, leaning back to push against his hand and encourage it. 

"Is that what I am?" Anders took the invitation and walked his fingers around the elf's thigh to rest his hand against the clothed edge of the skirt he wore. 

"I can say it again if you're not believing."

Anders chuckled and let his hand fall back to the table. The silver hidden in a pocket inside his sleeve didn't clink against the wooden top as heavily as it had before he'd order the ale. Or wiggled himself on the first ship out of Fereldan with a wave of his hand and a grin. "I don't have the coin for another compliment."

The Antivan took his mug and swirled what few sips were left of the drink around the bottom and knocked it back. He hummed against the edge and licked his lips before putting it down. "You think me like one of the whores here?"

Anders raised a brow. "I'm in a brothel, you're in a brothel."

"You certainly are. Come. I will show you what makes the difference."


	14. Cole and Justice - Spirits Being Spirits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a lot longer than I usually write for these prompts that I get sent, probably to let it stand on its own but it fits here fine. For an anon that wanted Justice and Cole chatting set during Inquisition. Not-so-subtle Handers.

The most wanted apostate in Thedas, it turned out, was not as wanted as he suspected. Word of the Kirkwall Chantry, whispers of the mage conference in Cumberland, and rumors of the Conclave spread through all countries, all with his name. Anders was as much a curse as a prayer, but it was very rarely spoken with a face in mind. His legacy was wide-reaching, but his identity was not. None were much inclined to be interested in another ragged apostate seeking safety in the walls that Skyhold offered, not when more trickled in every day. And if he happened to be walking closer to the man latter titled as Champion than any other refugee passing under the gates, it was passed off as just one more man attracted to his affluence.

It helped he glowed sometimes. Few risked the reputation of a mage as it stood. None braved the uncertainty that came with the display of flesh tearing free to let out the overwhelming power of the Fade residing just beneath the skin. It was no surprise the cramped quarters of the hold, growing ever more crowded each day as more and more people sought out the stronghold, with its multitude of the sick and the poor and the scared, forced to the very edges of humanity from one oppressive enemy attracted Justice. The mages were one step. All would see their needs met. Yet the display was more memorable than one man’s face in the crowd, and those that knew his name and his deeds were sure to notice.

Anders didn’t mind the stay in the hold’s upper levels. Skyhold was still in repair and scaffolding wrapped it’s way to the top of even the tallest tower and the crumbing walls let in the sunlight well letting out the man walking the floors. Above, he could see the Frostbacks stretching out below like so many teeth of the hungry world Thedas was, for more fear and hurt and blood, and none could see him, his frown, and the lightening flickering down his limbs. Only the ravens were privy to his comings and goings. The Champion was ever too busy to sneak up the winding staircases to meet him most days and Anders too cautious to descend them at night, and both were adamant on the issue with the Wardens. Anders was to stay at Skyhold while Hawke and the Inquisitor traveled to Alistair’s hideout. Any illusion of secrecy amongst the Inquisition’s inner circle would be broken the minute the Warden met his eyes.

They’d found a happy, if reluctant medium, as flighty and forget as the ravens preening in the rafters. It was where Anders routinely found him, petting one of the birds while he waited to be noticed.

“You are late.” It was Justice, tonight, who greeted the boy that would take their words to Hawke in the morning.

“You weren’t thinking about him.” The boy tapped the heels of his feet against the lower beam for another beat before he was gone and standing in front of Justice. Where Justice’s glow fractured and split to break free of the mortal host he shared like some uncompleted puzzle, Compassion’s light wrapped Cole up tight in a pale glow, steady and whole, though muted by the memories it encased itself in, took strength and structure from.

“I am now.”

“Yes.” It had been spoken a statement, but Cole answered the question. The line between Justice’s own thoughts and Anders’ dreams blurred when Anders slept, leaving the spirit behind to follow his conscious in the Fade. Anders dreamed of Hawke and Justice wondered what had kept this meeting. He’d stirred from the cot they’d been given, slowly, careful not to wake Anders, and went to the broken wall to wait. Anders liked it here, reading where the sunlight tumbled in through the crumbing walls and the wind could turn the pages of the tome he read, where the birds and the insects provided the chatter the people’s form below could not reach. Anders was safe with Hawke and Justice couldn’t be sure which mortal he’d been thinking of.

“Hawke misses you, too. Both of you. The bed is too wide and the left side is too cold, even when the windows are shut. There’s no bones sticking into his stomach this night or the night before or the night before that. Is he eating enough? How can I tell when he’s not here?” Cole glanced up at Justice from beneath the wide brim of his hat.

Justice’s hands ran down the length of Anders’ torso and stopped to let his fingers map out the bowl of his hips. “He eats enough,” he stated after another moment. “Anders would not wish him harm. I will see to this.” Cole nodded, and rocked forward and back on the balls of his feet. He would want a question to give to Hawke or a statement to confirm the continued consent at remaining hidden. Justice saw it just as necessary. The injustices to the people below itched at his mind, but Anders and his cause had taught him patience. There would be vengeance, given time, and Justice was willing to have it. That would have to serve Hawke until the next meeting with Cole, for he could not ask in place of Anders. Yet, the boy’s eyes remained on them, and they shifted to the broken wall when Justice finished his thought. Cole leaned over the edge to watch the few sleepless refugees brave the cold night air to walk the grounds, silent, waiting. He would ask his own, then.

“You are not bound by a host and this amulet given to you does not keep you here and yet you stay. Why is this?”

“I’m helping here.” Cole pointed to a candle in a window of an opposite tower. “The quilt is scratchy - it doesn’t smell like home. Find a softer blanket, tuck her in, and she remembers her mother. The scent comes with the picture.” His hand moved to the left. “Flowers grow here. He picked one for her sister. She’d forgotten what they looked like.” Cole glanced at him again. “He has somewhere to stay. He walks because he wants to, not because he has to. There is a future waiting for him, not one haunting after him. If I have ever called anything a victory, this would be one.” Cole’s finger was pointing at the room above the mall hall - Hawke’s room. “You’re helping, too.”

“I am Justice. I do not give comfort or bring the peace you seek to provide.”

“There can be Compassion in Justice. Anders healed.”

“With deeds more than words. He is remembered. You are forgotten. How is there Compassion when there is no memory of it?”

“They no longer hurt,” Cole answered simply. “They don’t forget why they hurt. It wouldn’t be good to forget that.”

“I would see they are never hurt again. Corypheus will be stopped,” Justice growled.

“Yes.”

“I would see him turned to ash myself.”

“Loud, so loud, where are you going? I made a promise - we will not be controlled.” Cole adjusted his hat over his eyes. “Hawke is going to sleep.”

“Will you be taking leave?” Cole nodded and scuffed his heels againts the newly repaired floorin and remained. Justice took his shifting for another opportunity. “Do you still feel the Fade?”

Something on the boy’s face twisted and he tucked his chin against his chest, wrapping his arms around his middle. “Sometimes.”

“I would…wish to speak to you on the matter.” Cole nodded. His footsteps were silent as he backed out of the room and the door creaked shut on a wisp of smoke as the spirit disappeared to meet Hawke before he finished readying for bed. It wasn’t likely to be the news the man wished for, but it was news of some sort. Justice didn’t have the eloquence Anders had, the ability to reassure Hawke that all was well and would remain so. He could promise justice, the time and power to strike back at the force standing in the way of alls well-being. He could assure that Anders was at peace for one night more.


	15. Cole - Birds

The Inquisitor was always asking him questions. Why were the daggers all in one barrel? Sword practice was always starting late when Cullen’s men found their weapons missing from the training yard. Was it he that surprised Leliana with honey in her tea? For all the spies she had, none could determine the one who knew of such a secret pleasure. Did he have something to do with the cheese left on the counter? The mice were getting in the kitchens and the mousers were growing fat. Did he take the rations of seeds from the last supply cart? The gardens were in need of replanting.

A running child slipped on a forgotten blade. She deserved the small smile at least once a day. The cats were growing bored. The birds were hungry.

Cole dug another fistful of seeds out of his pocket and tossed them to the ground below. The chirping in his ears was drowned by a flutter of wings as the birds joining him upon the wall made a dash for the offered food. A feather shook free from a wing and he caught it in his outstretched hand to brush the tip across a cheek.

It was a long flight from the foothills of the Frostbacks to the tops of the mountain. The refugees from the war, the mothers and her children with the fathers and their meager possessions were all hungry when they climbed, their stomachs cramped and swollen like their legs and shoulders from carrying such a burden. Skyhold was safety; a bed to sleep in, a fire to warm them, a meal to sustain them. The Inquisitor turned none of them away, not the mages, not the templars, not the commonfolk from all corners of Thedas.

A bird filled itself with one more seed and pushed off to join Cole back on the wall. It nestled in the dip of his hat. The animals were looking for safety, too. Their homes were burning with the fires left to run their courses, their families sacred away by the noise of all the marching. They needed a place to be safe, a place to find their own rooms, their own warmth, their own food.

Cole tossed more seed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to send a request in on my [ tumblr](http://theearlykat.tumblr.com/)


	16. Fenders - Slow Dancing

The hand around Anders' waist as he moved into a turn tightened and a laugh bubbled up in his throat at a wisp of a conversation played through his memory the same time his skin shivered at the pressure. The grip tightened further in reprimand rather than support and Anders swat it away with a more audible chuckle. 

"What do you find so funny?"

Anders felt the rumble always present in Fenris' voice against his chest and he sighed at the deep baritone, stepping closer to the elf on the next step to press himself closer. "I thought of that time Varric asked you what you did in this mansion of yours and you-"

Anders was glad he moved closer for the way Fenris laughed as he recalled his response. "I told him I ran from room to room, dancing through the halls, did I not?"

"Here he thought you were joking." Anders stepped back enough to let Fenris raise his hand high above his head and, using the arm still wrapped round him, encourage him into a spin before pulling him back close before his heel could hit the doorway of the next room. There was a bruise on his knee from an earlier attempt too close to the dining table that he would heal later, but the dull ache beneath his skin was a reminder of his progress. It was both a pleasant and frustrating one. Hawke invited them to a gathering of the city's nobility, complete with tailored clothing a repertoire of dances to be preformed. Fenris was familiar with many of them and offered his knowledge before Anders finished worrying through his lip over keeping favor of their group's self-proclaimed leader. 

"At the time, I was," Fenris admitted. "I have not danced for quiet some time."

"I could show you one I know," Anders teased. "Anders Spicy Shimmy, I call it, and it only sometimes requires clothes."


	17. HawkaBela - Tending a Wound

“We have a healer just down the ladder,” Hawke said, but Isabela stretched her leg further across his lap and tapped her heel on the table next to him. He snatched away the basket of bandages and potions before a wayward kick would knock it off and out of reach.

Isabela hummed her agreement and leaned forward. The stretch of her back pushed her chest forward and she slapped Hawke in mock admonishment when he stopped straightening out the bandage in his hands. “If I went to him, I wouldn’t have your hands on me, now would I?”

“If you went to him,” Hawke laughed, “you’d be fixed up much faster and get more than just hands.” A shiver ran down her spine and her toes curled at the implications and Isabela prompted him with another bang of her foot.

“Well, get on with it!” She grinned as Hawke danced fingers around the scratch in her thigh. A sting from a cut-purse she’d caught in the act, the think knife cutting through the leather of her skirt as she turned to grab the back of his collar before he fled with her coin. It would heal with no sign but for some bruising on its own, but the scab would tug on her skirt if it wasn’t wrapped but they had time enough to tease.

Hawke wrapped the bandage around her skin, conscious of the wound as he kneaded and rubbed up her tight. Isabela sighed at every touch and when Hawke reached for another roll she grabbed his hands and tugged him closer to pull him up for a kiss. The wrappings dropped in favor of squeezing her hips and Hawke twisted in the chair to fit her more fully in his lap.

“Better?”

“Mm, but we might have to test the range of motion.” Isabela wrapped her unmarred thigh around the back of the chair to tug herself closer.


	18. Anders and Sebastian - Warrior Cats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders writes a story about his Warrior Cat OC to feel better

The blacktop was still hot under the bare skin of his calves when the shadow rose over him, but the temperature dropped a degree with the sun out of the way. Anders squinted with the loss of light and drew his knees up to bring the papers he'd brought outside closer to his face and scribbled another sentence. The shadow persisted and his eyes were beginning to strain. He turned them up to direct his half-hearted glare at the offending shadow-caster, and turned it into a full force glare complete with a nose wrinkle when the owner of the shadow turned out to be Sebastian. 

"Excuse me."

Sebastian inclined his head. "You're excused."

Anders stuck his tongue out and shoved his feet forward, stretching them out of their bend, to kick his heels into Sebastian's feet. "I said excuse me!" The boy danced out of the way on one foot, the other held up with his hands around his knee away from another lashing. The sunlight came back, as bright and hot as ever, and Anders shielded his eyes long enough to adjust before going back to writing. 

"I just wanted to ask what you were doing."

"I just want you to go away." He threw a pencil at him. "I'm not going to be polite about it any more."

Sebastian put his foot down but stayed where he was, only turning his head to watch the pencil fly past him. He held his hands up when Anders brandished another one. It wasn't a smart move to show off his arsenal, not so openly where Sebastian could put the pieces together - the writing, the bundle of perfectly sharpened pencils - and come to the conclusion he'd taken the entire stack from the teacher's desk when lining up to be led to recess. He'd tell on him again, and with one more mark Anders would lose another star on his name. Any more peeled off the board and he was at risk of another call to his parents, but Sebastian only cared for his own streak. For every star Anders lost, he earned two more, for telling on him and returning or fixing that Anders took and broke. 

"We'll see about those stars now," Anders muttered, crossing out a word to replace it with another above it. 

"See what?" Sebastion took a step foward, fingers twitching, and Anders curled in on himself, papers pressed close against his chest. He relaxed again when Sebastian's hand returned to his side. "I'll tell Mr. Rutherford." 

Anders had another quip on his tongue that died out as quick as the air he sucked in to shout it, because Sebastian would. Teasing that he wouldn't would only make him all the more motivated, and the goal of recess was to keep the remaining stars he had. He didn't answer back, though, and Sebastian took it for the agreement it ultimately had to be, tugging hard, once, on the pages when Anders refused to let go without some sort of fight on his end. 

"Who's Pouncefeather? What?" he added, when Anders muttered something under his breath. 

"He's a cat. My cat. He's orange and is the medicine cat and has great big claws to rip up other cats and his favorite thing to do is pounce on Staryowl who is the stupid deputy of the clan because he made everyone believe he was sent by Starclan to lead them to be the best when really he's a phony! But only Pouncefeather knows and nobody believes him which is why he has to pounce on Staryowl all the time."

Sebastion frowned and turned over the page. "But Fenrust is helping him, so he can't be all that of a phony."

"I told you! Nobody believes Pouncefeather and plus, Fenrust is stupid, too."

"You spelled 'bramble wrong.' There's only one 'm'."

"Nu-uh," Anders tore the story out of Sebastian's hands and found the word for himself, mouthing the way it sounded, and rubbed it out with the eraser hard enough to tear a hole. He cursed, and grit his teeth when Sebastion gasped.

"I'm going to tell Mr. Rutherford!"

Anders tried to kick him again when he ran off. He flipped to another, empty, page, and began writing out a new cat, Lionclaw."


	19. Anders - Shredded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because someone said they heard the healer had an eight pack.

Bartrand needed a map to the Deep Roads and Varric knew just where to get one: a Grey Warden. It was another matter entirely to know where to find one of them. Whispers ran through the cracks in the city if he didn’t mind getting his face soiled to keep his ear to the ground and catch them. With no beard to pick up any more dirt than a smooth chiseled jaw could gather on its own, he mopped at his cheeks with a hand when one source led to a dead end and tried another. It was dirty work, but worth it for the money it could put in his pocket and the look on his brother’s face when the man he turned down as partnet sauntered back in for a replay.

Nothing came back promising, but it was still early in the game. He was still dipping his toe in with the Carta, testing the waters with the shop Lirene ran. There was a solid positive response to his inquiry about a Warden in Kirkwall, any other specifics unknown, either because the man was too new to the city or he was someone worth protecting. He sorted through the rumors to find the bits the truth, that rare gold in the miner’s pan, and laid out his profits for Hawke to appraise.

Varric spread his hands out over his desk when Hawke hopped up the stairs to his suite. Hawke pulled out the only other chair and swing it around to sit with his arms crossed atop the back. He raised a brow at the gesture. “What’d you find for me?”

“There’s a Grey Warden for sure, somewhere in the city. I can’t tell you where, but he’s definitely not in Hightown. Most likely not in Lowtown, either, from the lack of noise in his direction. They do all seem to point to an import shop near the foundries, run by a lass named Lirene.”

“The one helping the Fereldans?” Varric tapped a finger against the side of his nose. “Does that make the Warden a Fereldan?”

Varric shrugged and placed his hands on his desk, fingers splayed. “It might, but I wouldn’t make a case for it. Everything smells like piss in this place and you’re not going to be able to find which part smells like a dog’s.”

Hawke laughed. “Head to Lirene’s and don’t detour to stick my nose in someone’s piss hoping it smells like dog.”

“Atta boy.” Varric rose and fixed his chair before following the man out of the tavern.

The import shop wasn’t a far walk, and he needed to keep an eye on Hawke just in case his barbarian southern roots kicked in at the scent of dog. Or his lack of direction. Varric had to point him back on track twice before they made the final turn and up the spiked ramp to Lirene’s. The line that spilled out the door could have spoken for itself, but the sign hanging from the torch above the door made it homier on the outside. In the inside, people packed themselves tight within the confines of the collapsing walls. Few places would house refugees even with a job and nearly none opened their doors for the work-less. Lirene’s was the one hope they had, and there were always more than the beds she stacked in the back rooms.

“How am I supposed to know which one is Lirene?” Varric heard Hawke say to himself, unless he was meant to hear and the buzz of everyone shouting to be heard over one another turned it into a muttered thought.

“I’d go for the woman behind the counter shouting.” He pointed towards the front of the room.

“The healer will see everyone in due time! Those who have their bread for the day must make way for the others. If you have spent the night already it is courtesy to give your bed to another in waiting!” Lirene cupped her hands around her mouth. “The healer will see-”

“I heard the healer was shredded.” Hawke;s head turned at the sudden giggle and Varric watched a pair of girls leaning in close to each other to be heard.

“Dalilah said she saw him in the washroom,” the other nodded, her face growing red. “She said he had an eight pack.”

The first girl pushed her lightly. “No way!”

“I swear by the Maker she said so! Or go see for yourself in Darktown.”

Varric grinned and he nudged Hawke in the side. The man pat his shoulder. “The sewers it is.” Which, were, a bit of further walking than the tavern to the shop, and the sewage that soaked through his boots only weighed his legs down further until wet footprints marked their descent from Lowtown into the Undercity and through the tunnels for the search for the healing Grey Warden with an eight pack. The skinny frames and gaunt faces of those they passed left it difficult to believe anyone could find the resources to keep any sort of muscle mass, but it left it easier to pick out anyone that did.

Someone who could swing a staff so quickly in their faces certainly did have to potential.

“I have made this place a sanctury of peace and salvation! Why do you threaten it?”

Varric heard Hawke swallow, and knew it wasn’t just from the pointed end of the stave pressing just below his throat or the deep gravel in the Warden’s voice. There were large hands keeping the staff still, corded muscles running the length of his arms to end at a set of board shoulders. They rolled with the motion of setting the staff down, and Varric felt his eyes drifting downwards to attempt a catched peek at the famous abs. The sudden shuffle of the healer’s feet had him glancing at Hawke, and he laughed when he saw where his attention was directed to.


	20. Custom Warden/Zevran - Talk Dirty To Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When someone tagged me in this [post](http://the-zubat.tumblr.com/post/147344714669/lethalbarnes-imagine-your-otp-asexualmerrill) saying it sounded like something my Warden, Leverette, would say to Zevran.

“Have you seen my belt?” Leverette hopped down the hall, one hand tugging a sock up his ankle, the other slapping against the wall to keep him upright. Old Warden Grey, a thirteen year-old pit bull mix they’d rashly adopted on the day the dog was supposed to be put down for the burns he’d sustained after a group of teenagers burned the doghouse he slept in, followed after him, tongue lolling as he panted, snapping after the fingers just out of reach. “Love?” He stopped in the living room where Zevran sat on the couch, lounging, a book in his hands. “Belt?”

Zevran glanced up and Levy flushed at the curling smirk he earned with his half-dressed self presented before him. Zevran pulled a belt resting on the bottom of an empty laundry basket and Leverette moved forward to take it. If it was empty, Zevran surely did the laundry like he was asked.

“Merci.” Levy leaned down and gave him a quick kiss. He lifted his hands to cup Zevran’s cheeks, pushing him away gently. There wasn’t the time to give him the attention he deserved, not when he was needed for work soon. The way Zevran licked his lips when he conceded and sat back against the couch promised he was willing to wait for later, when he did have the time.

The dog gave up his game, as well, and hauled himself up on the couch next to Zevran. He snuffled as he found a space between the man and the back of the sofa, and rested his head on the offered stomach. Leverette gave him a parting pet on the back, and moved back to their shared room to finish dressing. With the missing belt found, he searched the pants drawer.

He heaved a sigh, closing it again harder than an empty drawer needed. His husband was an actor, he knew, but using the empty basket as a ploy was low. Especially when he needed new pants. There wasn’t enough time to wash them himself. He finished dressing, nose wrinkling as he pulled on a pair of pants over the night’s boxers, and pinned on his name tag.

His phone rang towards the end of his shift at the corner store. There was a second manager on the floor and few customers milling through the isles of snacks and sodas, and he slipped out the back door to answer it. The name of his husband on the call sent a brief spike of worry through him.

“Is everything all right?”

“I am in a terrible predicament,” Zevran answered immediately.

Levy raised his brows. “Which would be?”

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said, sounding very much like he had been thinking about him: soft and breathy.

Leverette leaned against the wall of the convenience store and crossed his arms, switching the phone to his other ear, away from the door. “What kind of things?”

Zevran laughed. “The things that make me miss you.”

“Where are you?”

There was th sound of something tearing - cardboard from a box. A fan, the one in the kitchen. “In the bedroom.” Levy snorted and rubbed at his mouth at Zevran’s answering chuckle. “Talk to me.”

Leverette swallowed and took a breath, tipping his chin down to lower his voice. “You’re in the bedroom. Standing up next to the bed, waiting for me because you heard the door shut when I came home.” Zevran hummed, half-listening, and Levy had to swallow a laugh. “I’m not entirely surprised you’re already there. I almost expected it, which is why I have a hand dipping below my work pants before I even open the door, the zipper already down.” Zevran purred. “Slowly, you come forward to pull them down. I slap your hands away and do it myself. Inch by inch, I reveal the underwear I’ve been wearing for two days because you didn’t do the laundry like I asked.”

Something fell to the floor, the box most likely, and static buzzed through the phone when Zevran swore and moved to pick it up before Warden Grey could get to it. “What was that last bit?”

“You didn’t do the laundry and I am at _work_ , Zev!”


	21. MeriHawke - Watch Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For an anon who asked for 'Anders and Fenris trying really hard to get Hawke's attention but fail because Hawke doesn't have interest in them because of Merrill.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit longer than I usually write for these, but it's been awhile since I've gotten a prompt and I was excited. Also have an idea? Come ask me on [tumblr!](http://asexualmerrill.tumblr.com/)

Hawke glanced up at Merrill’s giggle. She sat on the edge of rock lodged deep in the cracked stone of one the Wounded Coast’s many jagged edges, feet dangling and legs kicking to tap her heels against the stone. Fenris stood beneath her, ears twitching with every soft patter of her feet. Fenris’ scowl faltered before kicking itself up a notch. Merrill laughed again when she noticed the eyes on them, and Hawke gave her a small wave when she raised an arm to recognize his attention. He returned to looting the newest corpses to grace the land with Varric.

“Stop looking at me,” Fenris snapped.

Merrill shook her head. “You’re in love!”

His ears twitched again, in a different direction from the noise of her kicking legs, and Merrill leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees, propping her chin in her hands while she waited for his next retort. It was slow in coming, like all lies that needed to cover a deep truth, but she was patient. “I am not.” It was very convincing, but he was trying.

“You keep looking at Hawke with said puppy eyes every time his back is turned,” she pointed out, as if he needed the reminder for his own actions. Fenris hunched his shoulders, dark skin flushing. He threw his response in her face, and she caught it, held it gently in her hands because pain did not need to hurt others to be felt. It just needed to know it was real.

“If you’re looking for puppy eyes, go bother Anders. He is the one that shoots all the longing looks Varric likes to write about.”

Merrill nodded. “If I can read about Anders’ puppy eyes, why would I need to ask him? Varric wouldn’t write that about you, which is why it needed asking in the first place. You see?”

Fenris snorted. “I don’t.”

“It’s all right you know. To be happy. Everyone can be happy once in a while - even you. It won’t kill you.” He rolled his eyes. “Just be careful because your face might crack if you smile too much and it’s too pretty a face to mar.”

“I am not in love and I am not pretty.”

“I don’t know about that.” Fenris stiffened, face darkening from the dip in his chin to the tips of his ears when an arm slung across his shoulders to yank him off his feet. He inhaled through his nose, slowly, and let himself be tugged toward’s Hawke’s side. Fear and rage at the sudden surprise slowly ebbed at the warmth and scent of the man. “It is a pretty face.” The flush returned, true embarrassment heating his blood.

“If you like the whole smooth-cheek thing,” Anders said. He stepped lightly over an uprooted tree, one hand braced against it’s skyward roots and the other pressing a bundle of leaves against his chest. “I’m more for the rugged look.”

Varric made a thoughtful noise and pat the exposed skin his leather jerkin didn’t cover. “Is that the reason Bianca’s gotten her gears rusting? She can’t stand the thought of another’s hands all over me.”

Anders chuckled as he dropped onto the path with a puff of sand and stuffed his gathered herbs into a satchel. “I may enjoy the view but I know well enough to leave it alone. Bianca has no reason to worry.” He clapped his hands together to free them of dirt and grinned at Hawke when the man laughed.

Merrill watched the way the mage’s smile tightened at the corners and his eyes softened. Fenris nudged her leg to get her attention and she nudged him back to let him know she saw.

“Hawke, we should move on,” Fenris interrupted. Merrill sat up, eyebrows raising, and she glanced away from Anders to see Fenris sneer.

Anders’ smile had fallen, twisted into something that was disappointed and angry. She pushed herself off from the rock, landing lightly on her feet, to wander after him and comfort him, because Fenris didn’t meant o be angry all the time he just wasn’t sure what he was feeling and anger was familiar, but Hawke stepped up next to her to walk with her back to Kirkwall. She didn’t mind the company. Out of Hawke’s friends, it was only the man himself, Varric, and Isabela that spoke to her with more than just blood magic on their minds. It was a very nice feeling, to be included, because she was more than just what flowed in her veins, both the blood and the mana she used in her spells. Yet, she couldn’t help but be distracted from the tales she usually found herself enraptured in of the many bandits and drakes that called the caverns home, glancing about her to see how Fenris and Anders were doing. Fenris walked ahead, shoulders straight and sword heavy against his back, feet resolutely marching every forward but she noticed the way he tilted his head back to catch snippets of their talk. Anders walked behind, hands wrapped tightly around his staff, eyes glued to Hawke, not even aware of Merrill watching him. Dazed, almost. Merrill wondered if it had to with the spirit in him.

It was possible, she thought, as his eyes cleared and his expression tightened. His pace quickened, and a hand twisting around the wood of his staff moved to the satchel hanging from his hip. He shot her a look, and Merrill smiled and unwound herself from Hawke’s side to let Anders through as he moved in.

“Don’t let it get to you, Daisy,” Varric said. He held an arm out for her and she accepted the invitation to walk with him. “They’ll warm up to you eventually.”

Merrill lifted a hand to cover her laugh. “Oh, I’m not worried about that.” Varric raised a brow and Merrill pushed his arm away, turning in place to watch Anders pick through his gathered herbs to show Hawke. His hands shook as he showed them and discussed their properties; his face grew pink whenever Hawke reached out to take one to examine it closely, fingers brushing for minute contact. Merrill sighed and Varric took the distraction to finally wrap the arm around her waist.

“Have eyes for Hawke?”

“Oh, oh no, not me - I think - I do have eyes and I do like looking at him but I don’t think it’s the same kind of looking you like to write about, Varric.” He chuckled, letting her go, and Merrill twisted to find Fenris. He glowered at Anders, first, turning it on Merrill when he caught her looking, and growled in his throat before turning off the path. “Is he going to get lost?”

Hawke looked up from the plants Anders compared to weeds at her question, catching onto the disappearance. “Fenris?”

“Dogs have a knack for finding their way home. I say leave him to brood.” Anders said, waving the concern away. He dropped his smile and his shoulders when Hawke frowned at him.

Varicc nodded and unslung his crossbow. “Let’s go find our elf, then.”

“No need.” Fenris climbed up the slope back to the path, a pair of rabbits in hand. “We will not make it to Kirkwall before sunset and we should make camp.”

Hawke grinned and clapped his hand on the elf’s shoulder. “Good idea.” Fenris nodded, handing the rabbits over, and shot a glance towards Anders when the man walked away to find a spot off the main path to set a fire. Anders crossed his arms and looked away. “Merrill? Want to come help me?”

“Hawke seems happy,” she said, stepping close before making her way to Hawke.

Anders scoffed. “I suppose he does.”


	22. Handers - Warrior Cats pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oakhandshield on tumblr asked for another middle school warrior cats self-insert au, featuring Isabela and Handers.

Anders hunched his shoulders when a prodding finger jabbed him between his shoulder blades, elbows pulled in tight to keep the offending limb from disrupting his continuous scribble. He eased back after a time, when no more attempts to grab his attention worked their way to his person, and earned a kick of his seat for it. His pencil slipped from his fingers, graphite running off the page in a jagged line, and his desk chair jerked forward with an offended screech. Anders heard the student sitting behind him hold their breath just as he stifled his gasp. It was the half hour of the school day known only as ‘quiet time’, in which acts of independent activity were encouraged, whether that be reading, writing, or homework, and encouraged to be done quietly. Mr. Rutherford, the classroom teacher, held the reigns of such rules tightly.

The teacher merely lifted his head from what work was spread on his desk, eyes scanning the room filled with two dozen or so small children, and Anders ducked his head to hide behind the shadow of the one sitting in the row ahead. A steady reminder that this was a time to be silent was announced to the classroom, and Anders sighed a quiet breath of relief.

“Passing notes is against the rules,” a voice hummed behind him, no louder than a whisper.

Anders kicked a foot for his pencil, clenching his jaw when it only rolled further out of reach. “It’s not a note.”

“Then what are you writing so fast for?”

“It’s important.” The laugh that came in reply rose an octave in interest, and moved out from behind him to his side. A hand far darker and thinner than his own, also more decorated in a rainbow of plastic bracelets, snatched his pencil off the floor and handed it over. “Thank you - hey!”

Just as he reached for the offering Isabela slipped his notebook from the sturdy pressure of his elbow to bring close to her face, brown eyes bright with glee as he read.

“Oh, Hawkefur,” she imitated, deep in her throat to keep quiet while still attempting to present the identity of the character. She raised her brows and Anders flushed when she flicked her gaze towards the older student in the corner. A mop of dark hair rested on the desk as he used the half hour to sleep. She grinned.

“That’s not-”

“The whole Clan will know of us if we’re not careful,” Isabela continued, pitching her voice in a likeness far from Hawke’s. She swallowed and switched back to Anders’. “I want all of StarClan to see-”

The notebook was ripped from her her hands before she could read more, and Anders would have been glad if wasn’t for Mr. Rutherford being the one to take it. “What did I say about being quiet?” When he received no answer, he dropped the notebook on his desk in favor of a stack of pink slips. Isabela took hers with a flip of her hair. Anders snatched his up, fast, hoping the teacher got himself a papercut.

“I thought medicine cats couldn’t have mates?” he heard a familiar, and sleepy, voice ask as he turned out of the classroom to the principal’s office. Isabela hooted.


	23. Fenders - First Tome Waking Up

Waking up with the mage in his bed was no different from waking in the tent. There were the minute changes, of course, that came with the privacy of four walls and the rumor of haunted halls; the noise from outside had little change against the stone work as did the light that tried its luck through the thick curtains and the chatter traveling companions did not have the close proximity to tease them. Still, though, Anders slept curled within himself, arms tucked tight against his sides with one hand beneath a stubbled cheek and knees pulled high to his chest. The blankets were still unevenly distributed between them, with most wrapped loose about Fenris' legs. The pillows were still off the mattress, knocked carelessly by the night's activities - whether it be in passion or in fright. 

Fenris rolled onto his side to prop himself up on an elbow. Anders would wake soon, as always, with a complaint about whatever caught his eye. The birds, usually, when they made camp outside Kirkwall, and their insistent cawing and frequent droppings. He'd wave away the offer of breakfast, at first, until pushed, and then chew his way through three servings and self-consciously wiping the crumbs from his sleep shirt with muttered words about work needing attending to back in his clinic. 

In the tent, it was a suggestion to pack up and move on, though Fenris was assured it would mean the same thing here, under his roof. 

He leaned forward and tucked a lock of hair curling about the man's chin back behind his ear, displaying his face. "Anders."

The mage grumbled, softly, and pressed his face deeper into the mattress. "Five more minutes."

"No word about needing to leave?"

"Not when I've got a bed as soft as yours beneath me and an elf as handsome as you besides me."

Fenris scoffed and left him to his lounge for the requested five minutes, though a small smile grew on his face with every stair he descended towards the kitchen to begin the breakfast Anders would refuse and still accept. 

It was not a new concept, waking with Anders, but Fenris didn't mind the routine.


	24. Handers - Worst Cooks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For tearsofwinter, who asked for Handers cuddling to a netflix binge of cooking shows, except no actual cuddling ensures because Anders gets agitated.

Hawke was on his feet as soon as he saw car lights pass through the window and slide down the wall of the living room, out-competing the light of the television he was using both as a light source and a form of entertainment while he waited for Anders to return. He hadn’t meant to stay up so late, but he hadn’t been able to fall back asleep after his boyfriend’s text to inform him he had to work an extra shift at the hospital, and one episode of Worst Cooks to help lull him back into a sleepy haze had turned into two, then turned into half the second season, and what was the point of turning it off when he only had two more episodes to go?

Anders told him specifically not to wait up for him, and Hawke usually agreed. There was no telling when he’d come back from work, what with the limited number of nurses that worked at Darktown’s only clinic and the seemingly endless stream of illness and injuries that needed to be treated from the lower class workers that worked any job they could for pay. He’d had to overnight more than once a week some times, when the weather turned cold and wet and those needing shelter sought out the sturdy roof and somewhat dependable heating of the building. More often than not he was called in again after a few hours rest, and he could never say no. Neither could Hawke. The clinic was everything Anders had dreamed when he first mentioned going for his practitioner’s license all those years ago. Dream realized, he would do nothing short of keeping the man’s gas tank filled at all times in case of emergencies.

So they communicated with brief texts, Anders letting him know a rough estimate of when he’d be home, and Hawke responding with what sort of leftovers would be sitting on the top shelf of the fridge for him. A quick goodbye normally consisting of at least one kissing face and three heart emojis was exhanged, and Hawke would go to bed while Anders readied to get back on the clock. He never felt bad about falling asleep when Anders couldn’t, and Anders never felt bad when he could keep his job while Hawke freelanced what he could as a dispatcher.

They did, however, feel bad when one stayed up for the other.

There was always a secret sort of warmth when it happened, though, and Hawke was counting on the later.

He paused the episode, jumped off the couch, and was by the door as soon as he heard the lock click open. Anders swung it open and Hawke held arms wide open for him to step into, turning him around to unbutton his jacket and let it drop to the carpet before him. He heard an inhale of breath - probably to fuel some sort of reprimand for being up so late - and turned it into a spluttered laugh as he began unbuttoning his shirt, too.

Anders swatted his wandering hands away halfheartedly with only a mildly annoyed, “You know I’m too tired for that tonight,” easing the sting away by ending it with a, “love.”

Hawke settled for kissing his bare shoulder instead, feeling Anders’ hum as the man leaned into the expanse of his chest. “Too tired to eat?”

Anders snorted. “Never.”

“I’ll warm something up. Take off your shoes and stay awhile?”

“Maker, I hope so,” Anders groaned, and again when he kicked his sneakers off. “If someone calls it would have to be the bloody blessed Andraste before I picked it up.” He wriggled his toes, clenching them into the carpet after nearly the whole day spent on his feet, and collapsed on the couch, throwing an arm over his eyes as he swung his legs up over the arm of the couch to elevate them.

Hawke chuckled at the continued grumblings before slipping into the kitchen. There was some soup left over from when he’d made dinner before heading to bed, and he shoved it into the microwave for a minute and began pulling out bread and meats to pair it with a small sandwich while it heated. When he returned, one steaming bowl of tomato soup in hand and a chilled tuna club in the other, Anders was still grumbling, though the focus of his ire had switched from bemoaning about work to the insanity on the tv. Hawke nudged Anders’ legs away with his knee, handing him the food, and repositioned feet back onto his lap.

“At least you know that ramen noodles don’t go between pieces of bread,” Anders muttered, peeling the crust from the sandwich and stuffing it into his mouth.

“You know, I think I tried that once, and that’s why I don’t do it.” Anders shot him a look and his leg twitched into the threat of a kick. Hawke laughed and caught his heel, pulling it closer within reach and dug his thumb into the sole. Anders stretched, moaning around a mouthful of soup, insult forgiven.

Until one of the contestants attempted to one up their competitors by adding unnecessary ingredients to what was supposed to be a simple yet elegant sub. Anders twitched, again, at the thought of putting shrimp anywhere near a blt, at the same time Hawke found a particularly tense spot on his foot, and the twitch turned into a kick, effectively knocking him in the jaw. Hawke gagged at the foot in his mouth at the same time Anders yelped. The soup splashed on his chest, hot and wet, and the tuna club splattered to the floor.

Words beyond a stuttered apology didn’t make it past Anders’ throat, tight in the sudden flash of pain at hot liquid on his skin. Hawke was torn between laughing and swearing at the tiny cut his jaw, and choose to laugh at the guilt bright and shiny in his boyfriend’s eyes.

“When this bruises over tomorrow, do you think I can pass it off as a hickey?”


End file.
